Feather Whipped
by Wastelocked-Stories
Summary: Cas/Dean gay slash, Castiel doesn't even say a thing...


It's been nearly a week since Dean last saw Castiel. And when he had seen Castiel, Dean was convinced it wasn't really Castiel at all. After sharing beds, sweat, and semen for the last month or two, Dean really thought it really out of character for the angel - his angel, to suddenly tell him he doesn't serve him. Dean can only suspect that whatever spanking he got in heaven for doing who knows what, really shook Castiel up, and Dean was left puzzling over why he suddenly felt so lonely sleeping in a bedroom at Bobby's. Sam was downstairs, locked up tight, and Dean would have stayed down there with him, wanted to, but Sam had a serious rage problem at the moment.

Dean would just have to wait until Sammy's vocal chords gave out from screaming so much before he could stay the night down there with his baby brother.

But back to Castiel. Beautiful, cold, damn good in bed, confused Castiel. Feather whipped Castiel. The Castiel that wasn't here. And Dean - cursing himself for being lonely. The old mattress beneath Dean creaked as he shifted, naked under the sheets, the house just a little too stuffy for the press and stick of clothing. Dean can't sleep, it's got to be some ungodly hour, or the bird outside chirping is really confused; still, Dean just tosses and turns.

He's on his stomach, eyes closed in determination when out of nowhere, a hand slides swiftly over his mouth. Dean's eyes snap open, instantly fighting against an inhuman weight that rests on top of his form. He can't scream because of the hand and it's only after sucking in frantic breaths from flared nostrils that he notices an impossible to ignore scent. Feather, alter dust, Dove soap...

Green eyes widen, pupils shot in the dark as the figure easily musters himself under the covers, presses hot naked flesh to Dean's back, free hand gripping Dean's hip and it's all Dean can do to stay stock still beneath the feel of an impossibly hard weight rubbing between the cheeks of his ass.

The hand slowly draws away, as if sensing Dean's recognition. For a long moment silence pulls tense and tight as a guitar string - lips brushing across Dean's five o clock shadow. Then the breath Den's been unintentionally holding makes it's shuddering escape. "C-cas?" He asks, a tiny whisper breaking through the dark. The weight on top of him does nothing in response that would suggest that Dean was correct or incorrect, but he feels Castiel's breath, smells cinnamon toothpaste and something earthy and bitter.

"No. This isn't Castiel. Because if this was Castiel...then he'd be in a lot of trouble all over again."

If Dean hadn't been straining his ears he might not have heard the words, spilled in the roughest, lowest of whispers from Castiel's mouth. His eyes close, lashes fluttering as the statement churns around in his brain, trying to fight past its complexities to drag some sort of sense from it.

Dean's still rolling his thoughts around when he hears Castiel grunt, feels his dick slide between Dean's cheeks. The situation is weird, but Dean can't help but respond anyway, grinds back, shuddering at the friction of cotton against his cock; the muscle twitching to life in response. There's a strange sucking sound, and Dean's pretty sure Castiel's fingers are lodged in his mouth getting a good tongue treatment. That image alone makes Dean roll his hips back again, doesn't even care that there's pre-come smearing into the sheets now. Lust is sliding silky smooth through his veins and it's been so long.

_So damn long_. And Dean just doesn't care. He's pissed at Castiel, sure, worried about his brother, worried about a lot of things but right now? He just doesn't care. Then Castiel is sliding his hand in between his cheeks, Dean spreading his legs wider, sucking in a growl when two spit-slick finger find the Dean's puckered twitching entrance and penetrate to the knuckle. It stings like hell and Dean shoves his face into the pillow, crying out a muffled 'fuck.'

What the hell though right? Castiel isn't saying anything, just moving his fingers, scissoring, rubbing, fucking Dean's insides as if the act itself could gain Castiel sweet relief himself. But it can't, won't, and it's not good enough to Dean either.

"If you're gonna do this then do it Cas, it's been days man, don't be a fucking tease." Dean bitches, it's muffled, Dean _knows_ that Castiel is irritated. He can't see the angel, but he just feels it. Still, it's all the encouragement Castiel seems to need.

The fingers get rudely whipped away and Dean feels the head of Castiel's dick, fumbling with urgency to push past constricted muscle. A quiet word is muffled into Dean's hair, the hunter shifting to accommodate Castiel. Then there's push, a burning pain, a deep bruising sensation that makes Dean gasp noisily and Castiel is _in. _It's heaven, it's bliss. There's nothing slow and sweet and gentle about it. The passion of the Lord apparently isn't as docile as one would think. It's fire, raw lust; it's bodies sliding sweat slicked against eachother, a cock being ground fiercely into the sheets, a torrent of curses and encouragements gagged by a pillow and an angel..._his_ angel...

Making the world go white, the war to disappear, reality slip away and a collide of pleasure like the shot of gun slamming into Dean's gut, forcing his balls to shrink tight and come to spill onto the mattress, bubble up into the concave of his belly button.

Castiel doesn't even say a thing, doesn't grunt or moan. There's just a moment of a perfect shudder that ripples through him, his dick throbbing. Dean lies still, lets the sensations roll over him, doesn't even feel uncomfortable with the silence anymore. Castiel's lodged so far into him they'd look like one creature to anyone else, and the world keeps its damn mouth shut and doesn't shrill back at him. It's the most peace Dean's gotten since Castiel decided he was a mouthy, back-stabbing son of a bitch.

Dean barely feels the gentlest of kisses pressed to the side of his head, the action filling the volumes of space that the silence has brought. Then, he's gone. Dean's left gasping for breath on the bed, dizziness winning over the apathetic fight and sleep finally winning over the hunter.

The next morning, Dean's pretty sure it was just some mad, hopeful, delusional dream - except his stomach is caked with dry semen and stuck amidst the pearly mess is the shaft of a perfectly white feather.

If anyone asked, Castiel was never there, though the feather stays hung on the rearview mirror of the Impala and when Sam asks Dean what he thinks happened to Castiel, Dean just says:

"He got feather whipped for a few misdeeds. He won't be showing up anymore, haven't seen him for weeks..."


End file.
